Veldaro (the Younger, since we're making things up) was sitting on the balcony of a run-down hotel one morning writing a poem about palm trees and women when he was struck in the head by a piece of red brick.
It wasn't a direct hit, nor was it an indirect one. Shock, terror, pain, disorientation, blood, and rage ensued, all in their particular Veldarosque manifestations.
Why, who, and what to do informed his interrogative response. Veldaro would never find answers to these questions, except that, regarding what to do, he sought first aid.
He would bear a small scar (and a chronic loss of confidence regarding writing outside) for the rest of his life. He would save the piece of red brick, however, and become fond of it. He would wonder, too, about the efficacy of writers' deploying the future conditional tense.
Like him, the piece of red brick had been ill used, concluded Veldaro.
Veldaro the Younger's poetry lost much of its exuberance after the incident. It became saturated with absurdity and gloom, and its epistemology slipped and staggered between melancholy fatalism and morose despair. He did not associate himself with the truly oppressed; he knew better than that. Yet he also knew that often our defeats spring from circumstances less than tragic but, in the long run, as corrosive in their effects.
hans ostrom 2016
It wasn't a direct hit, nor was it an indirect one. Shock, terror, pain, disorientation, blood, and rage ensued, all in their particular Veldarosque manifestations.
Why, who, and what to do informed his interrogative response. Veldaro would never find answers to these questions, except that, regarding what to do, he sought first aid.
He would bear a small scar (and a chronic loss of confidence regarding writing outside) for the rest of his life. He would save the piece of red brick, however, and become fond of it. He would wonder, too, about the efficacy of writers' deploying the future conditional tense.
Like him, the piece of red brick had been ill used, concluded Veldaro.
Veldaro the Younger's poetry lost much of its exuberance after the incident. It became saturated with absurdity and gloom, and its epistemology slipped and staggered between melancholy fatalism and morose despair. He did not associate himself with the truly oppressed; he knew better than that. Yet he also knew that often our defeats spring from circumstances less than tragic but, in the long run, as corrosive in their effects.
hans ostrom 2016
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